


Family

by Fatale (femme)



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2018-01-01 00:06:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale





	Family

Family  
Gen: Peter, Neal  
WC: approx. 1,100

For [](http://run-the-con.livejournal.com/profile)[**run_the_con**](http://run-the-con.livejournal.com/)! For [](http://halfshellvenus.livejournal.com/profile)[**halfshellvenus**](http://halfshellvenus.livejournal.com/)'s prompt, "Secret messages."  
Thanks so much to [](http://love-82.livejournal.com/profile)[**love_82**](http://love-82.livejournal.com/) for being my second set of eyes.

 

 

**1986**

It’s the first Friday in June, Father’s day is in eight days and his teacher hands out ceramic markers, and tells them they’re going to decorate mugs to give to their dads as gifts.

Neal is eight. He sinks low in his chair, watches the other kids get started eagerly. Eventually, he grabs a marker and pops off the cap. He draws on the mug, takes his time sketching out a family: a mom, a dad, a blue-eyed boy. He even adds a small dog in the corner. His teacher compliments his work and Neal shoots her a wide, bright smile.

On his way home, he circles back behind a gas station and slips the mug in a dumpster.

 

 

**1991**

He is mostly a good kid; everyone says he’s bright. He gets straight A’s, tries to be well-behaved for his mom, but he can’t help himself. He gets busted running a pyramid scheme at school after having his notebook confiscated by one of his teachers. The notebook has three columns, one for clients, one for bets and one for money owed. Good luck breaking his code, he thinks spitefully.

Neal slips his fingers into his back pocket, fingers the small fresh stack of bus passes he forged a week ago. His thirteenth birthday is in a week. He’ll do something special for himself, he decides, lying sideways on his bed.

He closes his eyes, already dreaming.

 

 

**1997**

Neal is nineteen and he’s just run the biggest con of his life.

Okay, it’s not that great, he just collected non-existent inheritance tax from incredibly gullible wealthy people, but a few thousand dollars is more than he’s ever held in his hand before. He’s kind of like Robin Hood, stealing from the rich and well, he’s poor, so keeping the money seems right.

His heart thuds, his veins sing with excitement and he imagines this is what he’ll be doing with his life. This feels _right_.

Neal has a moderately expensive bottle of champagne and he drinks it on the balcony of his hotel, warm bubbles tickling at his nose, alone.

 

 

**2003**

He runs his hands down Kate’s side, the pads of his fingers sliding over her soft skin. Everything about her feels dangerous, miraculous, like something that could slip through his fingers at a moment’s notice. He can’t ever remember being so deliriously happy, alive. He kisses the flat of her palms, the tips of her fingers, pressing lips into the whorls, as she murmurs sleepily.

Their apartment is crap, they have nothing but a mattress on the floor, rumpled sheets and three day old pizza, but Neal feels -- content, maybe. The endless, gnawing hunger at the pit of his stomach has eased a little.

Mozzie will stop by in the morning, teach him some more about art, wine, and a bunch of shit dead writers said.

They’re a strange group, true, but he’s pretty sure this is what family is supposed to feel like. Twenty-five is a good year for him.

 

 

**2009**

He has spent three years and eight months in prison, watched the days slowly bleed into each other, gray and colorless. He’s lost Kate; Mozzie has been radio silence for six months. He’s been poring over Kate’s last letters, looking for secret messages, sending his own letters in return. They’ve all come back, unopened.

He begins growing a beard on his 31st birthday.

He stares into the small mirror, fingers the rough bristles growing across his face and starts shaving.

Showtime.

 

 

**2012**

Father’s day is in three days, garish signs are everywhere, retailers hoping to capitalize on the desperation of last-minute shoppers. He stops by the grocery store for toothpaste, sees a display and grabs something he thinks Peter would like, doesn’t let himself think about it too closely as he hands the cashier a twenty.

Things happen, life gets in the way, and he has to run. The package sits on his shelf, wrapped, collecting dust as he boards the plane that will take him to Cape Verde.

 

 

**2013**

His palms sweat against the paper. Stupid, stupid, this was a stupid idea. He knows its Father’s Day, knows Peter will read too much into this. Neal’s not even entirely sure what he means by it. He should -- take the gift home, bring it back on another, less loaded day. St. Patrick’s Day.

It’s weird, is all. He’s thirty-five goddamn years old, he’s jumped off buildings, been hunted by the FBI, run into gunfire, and he’s afraid to give another man a gift.

He knocks on Peter’s door, smiles nervously when Peter looks up.

“Had this hanging around for like, a year,” Neal says, aiming for nonchalant, missing by a mile. He thrusts the box at Peter, practically throws it at him. “Got tired of dusting it.”

“Doesn’t June have a housekeeper that does your dusting for you?” Peter asks, catching the package.

“Metaphor, Peter, God,” Neal says.

Peter sets the box on his desk, carefully pulls of the paper. Neal watches him, heart pounding, chest tight, as Peter’s face breaks out into a grin. “Cop humor,” Peter says. “Nice.”

Neal shrugs, jams his hands into his pockets. “It was either that one or the rude one about the donuts.”

“Thanks, Neal,” Peter says, meeting his eyes. “I mean it.”

“No big deal,” Neal says as he turns to leave. He gets as far as the landing, glances back to see Peter dumping his coffee into the new mug Neal bought for him.

Neal breathes in, breathes out.

Peter’s okay, he’s fine, and he’ll stay that way, Neal tells himself, feeling sick.

 

\---

 

Peter pauses by Neal’s desk on his way out, and Neal pretends to be engrossed in the most boring case of copyright infringement to ever clog up the justice system.

“Going to stop by and pick up something for dinner,” Peter says. “Any preferences?”

“Hm?” Neal asks, swiveling around to face him.

“What do you want for dinner?” Peter asks, a touch impatient, like Neal’s being purposefully obtuse.

“I don’t care.”

“Then don’t bitch when I get Thai again,” Peter says. “Coming?”

Neal hunches his shoulders, thinking, until Peter’s hand, warm and steady, curls around the back of his neck. Neal jumps a little, then, eyes sliding shut, leans back into the touch. He feels his stomach unknot, his heartbeat steady; his hands, always fiddling, go still.

He’s never been so afraid of losing that he wouldn't play the game, and unlike everything else he’s ever owned, Neal never had to con or steal Peter.

He clears his throat and blinks. “Yeah -- I just, yeah,” Neal says and closes the folder. He stands up, grabs his jacket off the back of his chair, and follows Peter out the door.

 

 

the end.

 

 


End file.
